Heartbreaker
by twisted-sheets
Summary: US/UK, of sorts. America wasn't the only one who broke hearts; England did it too.


**Title:****_Heartbreaker_**  
**Disclaimer:** Hetalia is not my creation.  
**Pairing:** America × England  
**Rating:** PG-13: Angst. This one has bucketfuls of it. WHY AM I WRITING THIS?  
**Summary:**America wasn't the only one who broke hearts; England did it too.

Every year, America invites England to his birthday party. Every year, England declines to attend. Sometimes he shows up, but never stays for long. Most of the time, he never comes, and sends his gifts through Canada or France or Australia or Portugal. He always calls though, drunken calls in the middle of the night where he berates America for leaving him, and sometimes when he's really, really drunk, for breaking his heart.

_Huh_. That part always gives America pause. _For breaking his heart_. As if America had no heart to break, too.

It is a well-known fact that America broke England's heart when he sought and gained his independence. _Everyone_ knows this—even America, who likes not to think about it, and even England, who denies this vehemently and often violently as well. As the tale goes, England was said to be never the same again after his beloved little brother broke his heart, and the tempestuous Nation became even more bad-tempered after that, much to the terror of other Nations, many of whom became on the receiving end of it.

It is an unknown fact, however, that when it comes to breaking hearts, between the two of them, it was England who started it all.

After all, England broke America's heart merely minutes after they first met.

* * *

To his credit, England didn't do break America's heart deliberately. But it is very like England to unwittingly hurt people's feelings with careless words and actions. He wasn't called the Flag Crusher for nothing, after all.

"I should call you older brother, right?" America had asked, smiling at strange man before him, the one with the funny brows that looked like golden caterpillars, his body thrumming with giddiness at the warmth in his heart at the thought of finally having a brother—a family!—after all these years of being alone. Of course he loved his animal friends, but too often he wondered what it would be like to have a family like the settlers in his lands did. What it would be like to have someone take care of you and love you, someone of your own kind. And now here was this strange man, who sought him out and declared him to be his new brother.

But his hopes were dashed far too soon. America felt his heart twist in sudden pain when he saw England's previously confident smirk falter into an uneasy smile. "No," England said, and with that one word broke America's heart, "don't call me your big brother. England would be fine."

How was America to know, back then, the reason why England refused to be called an older brother? It took America more than a hundred years to find out, and by then, it was too late. Eyes wet with unshed tears, America fled from England, not understanding why he changed his mind and didn't want America to be his brother anymore. Was he not enough, not acceptable? Was there something wrong with him?

And yet, despite this, it was England America chose in that little contest in the end. England, who didn't have anything to offer him, but whose tears moved America to chose him. America doesn't remember why those tears affected him so much, but maybe it was instinctual in him, an early manifestation of his later desire to be a hero.

(While the image of England as a damsel in distress is kinda hilarious on the surface, America tries not to really think about it. He has enough problems thinking of England without thinking of him in a dress and somehow the image _turns him on_ and what the _fuck_ was wrong with him?)

* * *

It would not be the last time England broke America's heart. Every time England leaves (_why can't you stay here with me always?_), every time he says an unkind word (_I'm not an idiot!_), every time he refuses to hear of America's ideas, of his complaints and his desire to be more involved in the affairs of his lands and people, for more freedom to be his own country (_why can't I have a say on matters in_ my_ lands? I'm not a child anymore_), America's heart gives that tell-tale twist of pain. And so it went, on and on, until finally he couldn't take it anymore, and thus was born his revolution.

(There were many reasons why he decided to seek independence. This was one of many, but it was certainly one of the most personal, something that went beyond and separate of him as a country, and more of him as…an individual? A sentient being? America can't really think of a right term for it. Only that he knows whatever he felt for England, it had nothing to do with him being a country and everything to do with being _him_.)

America still remembers it quite clearly, that quarrel, that last fight that sent both of them into such rages that it ended up wrenching them apart for a long, long time. America trying to get England to listen, to hear him out, but England refused him again and again, telling him he was a fool and unprepared, an arrogant, upstart stripling who doesn't know what he's asking for, who presumes too much, all manners of insults about his and his people's abilities and knowledge and ideas.

He still remembers the pain then, when he realized England would never yield to his entreaties, and that England, the one he adored and love for almost all of his existence, didn't believe in him, didn't _trust _him. Didn't want him to out in the world, and let himself experience it by himself.

America still dreams of that time, and when he wakes up from them his heart is pounding, his body drenched in cold sweat. He can't go back to sleep, and watches TV, plays games, _anything_ to keep himself busy, in an effort to keep himself from picking up the phone and calling England, to tell him what a bastard he is and why, _why_ didn't he trust in him then, believe in him, let him go? Even now the thought still rankles, so he tries not to think about it much, it's pretty pointless to get all worked up about it. It was the past, and he should move forward.

Except England still acts like that around him, more than two hundred years later. Still treating him as of he were still that boy in the past. Still stuck in that part of time and refusing to let go.

Sometimes, America wonders if England really sees _him_, the United States of America, at all?

How could they ever move forward, repair their frayed relationship (and their broken hearts), if one of them kept clinging to the past? Alfred is at a loss what to do, nothing he could think of _works_, but he knows deep inside, he'll never stop trying, never stop trying to make England look and see _him_.

(And that's why he'll keep on inviting him to his birthday party, and one day, England is going to come, and he's going to _stay_, goddammit. And they're going to have cake and soda together—_fizzy drinks, America, fizzy drinks_—and watch the fireworks. They don't have to say anything to each other, not a word, not even happy birthday. England being there beside him is enough.)

**Notes:**

It's…something I wrote trying to divine whatever America felt for England when I was working on _Floriography_, but I felt this didn't really fit in the verse.

Also the first time I wrote anything in America's POV. Man I suck writing him.

/runs and hide


End file.
